Rumpled
by bloodsoakedleather
Summary: Emerson Kent has fancied his boss since the moment he first laid eyes on him, but just because nothing is ever likely to happen between them doesn't mean he has to stop lusting after him.


**A/N:** I do not own Whitechapel or any of the characters. This is just for fun.

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Em wakes with a sort of start, dragged from his sleep by the radio alarm on his bedside cabinet and the latest crime against music perpetrated by the current perky, teenaged, pop muppet of the month. He groans, and without opening his eyes he leans across the bed, fumbling for the off switch and muttering under his breath a string of blue curses most people wouldn't believe him capable of.

Dropping his head back down on his pillow he groans again.

He'd been having the most bloody amazing dream. Really, erotic didn't even begin to cover it. He and Joe had been…

A half sleepy but wholly indecent grin creeps across his lips as he thinks about the older man. He's fancied him something rotten since the moment he first laid eyes on him. He's even entertained a few brief romantic fantasies, though not for a long time because he's always know they'd never come to anything since the D.I. seems to find the whole idea of relationships in general quite distressing and unpleasant. That doesn't mean Em has to stop lusting after him though. In fact he isn't sure he could if he tried, not that he has, because the man is bloody gorgeous with his perfect hair and his aristocratic good looks and his bespoke suits. Even the fact that he's always so uptight is weirdly sexy because Em can't help but wonder exactly what it would take to make him let go of all his inhibitions and let himself get literally and metaphorically filthy.

He's still hard from his dream, and his dick twitches as he pictures his boss all flushed and sweaty and rumpled. He's going to have to take care of that not so little problem before he goes to work or he'll never be able to concentrate. He's already pretty close so it isn't going to going to take long.

Quickly he shoves his boxers down over his hips, freeing his aching erection from their confines and lazily runs his fingertips up and down his length before taking himself in hand. He moans softly, giving himself a few long slow strokes at first, just to get himself started, then he closes his eyes and tries to recall his dream. The images are so vivid.

_Joe, leaning back against the door of the station bathroom, head tipped back, eyes closed, mouth hanging open. Strong hands pushing Em to his knees and tangling in his dark curly hair while he licks and slurps at his cock before wrapping his lips around it and sucking him down to the hilt._

His grip has tightened, his hand, slick from the copious amounts of pre-cum he's leaking, is moving quicker now.

_Joe worrying his bottom lip with his teeth, trying so hard to be quite while Em is fondling and kneading his balls, then gasping as he slides one spit slicked finger between his arse cheeks and finds his hole._

He's rocking his hips upwards, thrusting into his hand and it feels so, so good.

_Joe clenching around his finger, bearing down just a little and swearing under his breath as he cums, hard and fast in Em's mouth, thighs trembling, knees buckling._

He's not going to last much longer.

_Em on his knees, lips still sealed around Joe's cock, swallowing every drop of cum he has to give, palming his own cock through his trousers, grinding against the heel of his hand and…_

Oh God! Oh fuck! Yes. That's it. That's fucking it.

A blinding white light explodes behind his eyes and then he cumming in thick white ropes all over his stomach and chest, moaning and shaking and panting for breath. For a second, he thinks he might just pass out from the intensity but he doesn't. It takes him a while to come down from the high, he's not sure how long exactly but he senses it's not long enough to make him late for work. That's good, he doesn't fancy explaining that he was late because he was too busy wanking over sexual fantasies about the boss.

Speaking of which, he supposes he ought to get out of bed. His shift starts in, he glances over at the alarm, forty-two minutes and he's sticky, sweaty and covered in his own semen, he seriously needs a shower but he can't be bothered to move.

One more minute he tells himself, one more minute then I'll get up. One more minute and he'll be ready to face the day.

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**Reviews appreciated**


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